


Symmetry

by MirrorMystic



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Depression, Domestic Fluff, Gen, post-interrogation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 21:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13578870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMystic/pseuds/MirrorMystic
Summary: Everybody got on her case when she spent all day inherroom. Why shouldn’t Futaba get him back?





	Symmetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RetroKinetic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=RetroKinetic).



> For Retro, on their birthday, and for drawing the picture that inspired this fic: https://twitter.com/bufudeeznutz/status/956355321844453376
> 
> For the people you want on your good days, and the people you need on your bad ones. I hope you all enjoy the read.

~*~  
  
It’s strange, how familiar this feels. The dark room. The oppressive quiet. The garbage strewn all over the floor.   
  
Of course, there are also a few glaring differences. He wasn’t shrouded in a perpetual electronic glow, for starters. He didn’t have the sweet multi-monitor set-up that she had next door- just a refurbished laptop he got from the thrift store. She already had plans to make him a proper computer. That craptop had to go.   
  
He didn’t have her glow in the dark star stickers, or her anime figurines, or her mini-fridge, which was unfortunate. He also didn’t have a door, which is how she so easily wound up in his room.   
  
Futaba picked her way through the mounds of clothes and garbage lining the floorboards, her eyes already adjusting to the dim light.   
  
Akira was a bundle of blanket and frizzy hair sprawled facedown on his bed. Futaba poked him in the head. He didn’t move.   
  
“Hey,” she said. She kept poking. “Hey. Edgelord. Get up.”  
  
Nothing. Futaba groaned and sat on the edge of his bed, kicking her feet. She scanned the debris field that was his bedroom. Besides the heaps of laundry, there were also convenience store bento boxes and empty cups of instant noodles strewn everywhere. Curry flavor, too. That must’ve driven Dad crazy, picking the cheap stuff over his recipe.   
  
The room had an improbable amount of garbage for just five days. Then again, on _her_ bad days, Futaba had always been the type to fixate on one thing and forget to eat. (And sleep. And bathe. And…) Yusuke was like that, too, now that she thought about it. Akira, apparently, had the opposite response.   
  
Eventually, Futaba heaved a sigh and got up, stacking all of Akira’s discarded noodle cups together. If nothing else, it would satisfy that Tetris part of her brain that liked it when things fit snugly together. She dumped her stack in Akira’s already overflowing trash, sighed, and went downstairs to get another garbage bag. She emptied Akira’s trash into the bag, along with the convenience store bento, for good measure.   
  
As she was tying off the bag, she heard a clink by her foot. She glanced down, grabbing a trio of empty coffee mugs, the white ceramic stained a splotchy caramel-brown.   
  
“Coffee mugs, too?” Futaba said, and groaned. She went downstairs and set the mugs in the sink, before lugging the garbage out to the dumpster across the street.   
  
Some time later, while Futaba was in the middle of sorting Akira’s clothes into ‘clean’, ‘dirty’, and ‘hopeless’, Akira finally lifted his head off his mattress.   
  
“Taba,” he croaked, voice hoarse from disuse. “You don’t have to clean my room.”  
  
Futaba inspected a shirt with a sniff, gagged, and then gingerly dropped it into the ‘hopeless’ pile.   
  
“You did mine,” she shrugged. “It’s only fair.”  
  
“Taba, that was months ago.”  
  
“Still counts.”  
  
Futaba dusted off her hands and flopped back onto Akira’s bed, Akira grunting when her head collided with his back.   
  
“Ow,” he said, deadpan.   
  
“You big baby,” Futaba muttered. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and clicked it on. Akira flinched away from the glare of the screen, ducking under his covers again.   
  
“I was doing just fine,” Akira muttered into his bed.   
  
“What, in your depression cave?” Futaba scoffed. “And here I thought mine was the best.”  
  
“So, what, you came to defend your title?”  
  
“No,” Futaba said firmly. “You’ve been radio silent for five days. I wanted to see if you were ready to come up for air.”  
  
Akira exhaled. He knew what Futaba meant, but it was a poor choice of words. On his bad days, he didn’t feel like he was drowning. He didn’t feel like he was being entombed, like he was sinking into the depths with chains around his ankles.   
  
On his bad days, he felt like he was weightless. Insubstantial. Ghostlike. Like he’d be blown away by a stiff breeze.   
  
Having Futaba laying on him with all her weight digging into his bruises, drawing out all his aches and pains… sure, it hurt. But it hurt the way looking into the light hurts, after spending too long in the dark.   
  
Akira abruptly realized his eyes were wet. He took a deep breath and sighed, smearing his tears into his sheets. The interrogation flashed across his eyelids, piercing the fog of memory and burning itself into his eyes.   
  
He shuddered, feeling himself slip back into the fog. But then he felt Futaba shift above him, and his breath caught in his throat. She was his anchor. She held him down and held him steady, even if it meant losing the feeling in his legs.   
  
“So, are you?” Futaba asked, tapping away at her phone.   
  
“Muh?”   
  
“Ready to come out.”  
  
“Oh,” Akira thought about it. “...No.”  
  
“Okay,” Futaba said, scrolling. She leaned back, bonking her head against his, gazing up at his ceiling. “...Do you want me to leave?”  
  
Akira took a deep breath and sighed. “...No.”  
  
Futaba didn’t say anything. But she didn’t move, either. Akira lifted his head, and saw the light of her phone cast on his sheets, and the tell-tale shadow of her thumb over the screen.  
  
“What are you reading?” Akira asked.   
  
“Clickbait,” Futaba said lightly. “What did the Phantom Thief do after his near death experience? The answer may surprise you.”  
  
_He’s okay_ , she sent to the group chat as she spoke. _I’ve got him._   
  
“Liar,” Akira said.   
  
“Meh.”  
  
The minutes ticked by, the heavy silence slowly growing warmer, more comfortable. Akira almost found himself dozing off, until he heard the crinkling of a cellophane wrapper being torn open.   
  
“Before I forget,” he heard Futaba say above him. “Inari got these for you. A gift.”  
  
A pause. Akira cleared his throat.   
  
“...Are you gonna let me get up so I can see what it is?”  
  
“Pfft. No.”   
  
“Brat,” Akira rolled his eyes.   
  
Akira lay his head in his arms and drifted off, losing himself in the warmth and weight of Futaba against him. He didn’t remember when he fell asleep.   
  
When Akira woke up, Futaba was still beside him. His legs were numb, but his heart was light, and when he rolled over and looked up at his ceiling, he saw stars in the sky.   
  
~*~


End file.
